


A Kiss Sweet Cicero

by Silver_Centurion



Series: Sithis' Playground [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Bonding, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:46:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3203054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Centurion/pseuds/Silver_Centurion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dovahkiin finds himself bored with life after Alduin's death and seeks the company of the Dark Brotherhood's Fool of Hearts. An arduous journey ensues as Lance finds himself with a new family and a new set of troubles. Who knew he'd actually miss Alduin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter the Fool of Hearts

‘Let this volume serve as the personal  
record of one man, a lowly assassin  
who has pledged his blade and his  
life for the Dark brotherhood.’  
-18th of Evening Star, 4E 186

It had been a year. A whole year since the incident at Helgen, and Lance has found himself wandering the vast plains of Whiterun hold. The snow crunching under his boots was familiar, but he knew it wasn’t the same snow that first fell on that first walk to Whiterun from Riverwood. Then again some of it might be the same snow. It was hard to tell. Skyrim was cold enough, and, frankly, Lance wouldn’t have been surprised if the snow from that day hadn’t even begun to melt.

Whiterun was not his destination, but he found himself walking by the city anyway. In fact he had no true destination. Lance was merely wandering the area in search of a cave to plunder or a nest of something creepy to extinguish. Whiterun’s stone walls were, for lack of a better phrase, imposing and magnificent, albeit a bit old and battered. Strange how such old walls held up to dragon attack, civil war, and even a dragonborn as Lance practiced his voice within its walls. That wasn’t his best idea, but the look on the local’s faces had almost been worth the jail time for disturbing the peace.

The Nord chuckled at the memory and kept walking past the city. Although he left footprints, his feet made no noise. Even after all this time the blessings of the Mistress of Thieves still disturbed him. Nocturnal’s armor gave even his hulking frame silence and agility unnatural of men. It had been half a year since that incident as well, but the wounds were still somewhat fresh. The betrayal of a well-respected mentor, the whole deal with Nocturnal, and being coerced into making a deal with a Deadra still wasn’t sitting well with him. The idea of living forever in darkness, becoming one with the very shadows that hid him from sight, made the Nord uneasy. He wasn’t religious by normal means—after all he prayed when it benefited and often stole from the communion box—but he wanted to be welcomed into the hallowed halls of Sovngarde to rest and sing with all the comrades he had lost. Slowly rotting in a void was not his idea of a pleasant afterlife. You couldn’t have mead and endless slews of women in the void. It just didn’t work like that.

A few quaint farms dotted the area as he went. Lance had never been the farm type, but his home near Falkreath did sport a well stocked garden. Lance wondered if his bard had watered any of it. It was all probably dead. Great. Now he had to buy more plants. That was a pain to stock in the first place. That bard was sure as fired. It didn’t matter if he had the finest ass in all of Skyrim.

The sky opened with a light rain and Lance was thankful for his cowl. It kept out the water well enough, although the cold came and bit at his flesh through the thin material. Not even the guards were out today because of the dropping temperature. It would be a ripe afternoon for thieving if not for the lack of potential victims. Who would he pickpocket? The cow?

The furry animal lifted its’ head to watch him as he pasted. “What are ye looking at ye beast?” He drawled to the animal. Lucky damn animal with its thick fur and barn full of hay. It was stupid for standing out here in the sleet. If he had hay and a barn he’d be sleeping and eating. Well not the hay. That’d be gross. Maybe some mead and a nice hunk of venison. The hay he’d just sleep on.

Scoffing at the animal’s lack of regard for the suffering of others, he stalked down the road and pulled his cape further around himself. Nords shouldn't be this miserable in their own homeland. It really wasn’t that bad. The cold was manageable albeit annoying, but Lance has been wandering aimlessly for days now, and he was more than ready to either find someone with a lot of plunder, or find a nice spot to rest his tired legs.

After a quick look around for his bearings, and a begrudging look at his map, he realized where he was. This road led north of Whiterun and was almost a straight shot for Dawnstar. Funny he’d been all over Skyrim and he’d never found himself on this road. In fact roads in general were not worth it. Who ever found anything of value by keeping to the road? No one. You got robbed and run over by insane cartmen on the road. Off the road you can explore caves and stab bandits while they sleep to take their possessions. Regardless it was something new and he’d been searching for something new to do. Even if it was just taking a new road, Lance was eager for it. Anything other than the horrible monotony of Thieves Guild missions, and taking orders from that fur-clad King in Windhelm, was a blessing.

As Lance passed by a decrepit watchtower, somehow still occupied by guards, and went further down the road he came upon a curious sight. A cart was broken on the side of the road. This in itself wasn’t odd, but the little man skittering about the broken wagon certainly was. Lance could hear him ranting from where he stood, and it would have been funny had Lance not been trying hard to stay pissed at the weather and lack of mead on his person.

“Ugh! Damn wagon wheel! So heavy, so…nghhha broken!” The little man shouted as he tried to lift the wooden wheel from its place in the road. Poor thing. Couldn’t even lift a wheel with those little milk drinker arms. Cute.

Lance would normally just try to pass without incident. He didn’t like to make a habit out of helping the less fortunate, but the pitiful sight of the little man trying his absolute hardest to lift that wheel tugged at what little heart Lance had left. That and curiosity would ultimately be his downfall one day. Seeing someone in such an odd state of dress—was he a fool?—peaked his interest.

“Ye uh…need a hand little man?” The Nord asked trying to hide the snicker in his voice.

His amusement only heightened when said man squeaked like a dormouse and turned so fast he seemed to hurt himself. “Gah! Oh…Cicero’s heart did something funny…” he muttered to himself before standing as if trying to compose himself.

This time Lance did let out a chuckle. Honestly, what was this man wearing? He had to be an imperial based off his stature and hair color, but his state of dress was…strange to say the least. “I said do ye need a hand lad?” he asked again.

“Yes!” The man shouted immediately. “This wheel! Damndest wag—wait did you say lad? Lad? Gahaha! Cicero hasn’t been a lad since…since he was a lad!”

Lance immediately regretted saying anything as his comment threw the manic little man into a fit of laughter. So much so that lance was torn between laughing with him or just walking away quietly while he was distracted.

The man wiped his eye with a few final giggles, “Ah no no I am not a lad! But if I were a lady I would be flattered at the assumption of my youth! But I'm not…I’m a boy…a pretty pretty boy! Now where was I…” he looked puzzled before snapping his fingers. “Ah yes! This wheel…

“Cicero was just transporting his mother…his dear sweet mother. Moving, but now still…so very still, but not at rest! He was taking her to her new home, a new resting place. Not her in the literal sense of course. Her corpse. She’s quite dead! But then this wheel! Damnedest of damned this wagon wheel! It broke and now we are stuck! Stuck, stalled, delayed…”

Lance shifted from foot to foot as he listened. He expected more, but the dramatic man seemed to be waiting for a comment of some sort. “Uh…ye want a hand with that?”

The man’s, obviously named Cicero by the context of his odd way of speaking, eyes widened with delight and he did a little dance. “Yes yes! Oh what a kind stranger you are. Clad in black and, oh my your big, but yes yes yes! See that farm there?” Lance’s eyes followed Cicero’s finger and nodded. “That’s the farm. The Loreius Farm. The farmer, Loreius something-or-other. He has tools! Tools to come and fix Cicero’s wheel. Fix it right up! But that farmer…he won’t help poor Cicero! He refuses! Go to him, convince him to help Cicero, and you will be rewarded!”

That really got Lance’s attention. Reward? That usually meant gold. Gold he liked. This Cicero could take off his clothes and do a jig and Lance would join him if he offered gold. “What kind of reward are ye talking about?”

“Gold! Yes you like gold don’t you? Help me and my poor sweet mother and you shall be given bright and shiny gold! Go, go talk to this farmer and Cicero will wait right here with your answer,” the man grinned widely and took a seat right where he had been standing.

It was a strange request, but nothing that Lance couldn’t handle. Convince a farmer to help a madman? He once had brunch with Sheogorath and had a conversation with him over the political value of cheese. This was nothing. 

In the end all lance had to do was say a few words and show the kind farmer his sword to get him to agree the mad little man. Carrying skooma or not, Lance wanted to be paid. Cicero could have the Emperor himself in there for all he cared.

When he returned Cicero was indeed where he had left him, and the strange man seemed sleepy despite Lance only being gone for a few minutes. All that ranting and raving must have tuckered the little Imperial out. Lance cleared his throat this time before speaking. “He agreed. He’ll be down soon with his tools and ye can be off.”

Cicero squealed with delight and jumped to his feet. “Oh happiest of days! Thank you thank you thank you kind black stranger! What a friendly hulk you are! See here, some gold. Shiny klinky gold!” Cicero eagerly shoved a small sack at Lance and proceeded to do another little dance.

The sack was small, but at least Lance was 450 gold richer. He huffed in amusement at the fools antics, and he gave a soft thanks. Cicero said something about him being polite and Lance bid him a farewell.

“I will wait right here for the farmer. Right here so he can fix his wheel!” The redhead cooed and took another sit in the dirt. 

He was such a strange little man, but Lance couldn’t help but smile under his cowl. Mad though he was, at least he was happy about it. Lance almost envied his smile. It was wide and manic, but it seemed genuine and reminded Lance of the Mad God himself. They’d get along, Sheogorath and this Cicero, either that or they’d be at each other’s throats in a matter of seconds. Lance could see it as he started back up the road. They’d take one look at each other, and Sheogorath would say something vulgar and Cicero would laugh about it. Then they’d be a match made in Oblivion and made lots of insane little babies. Yep. Skyrim was a weird place. Maybe he should go live in Black Marsh. At least he could find a quiet little mud hut to live in. Maybe he’d get lucky and get eaten by some sort of large water beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is a work in progress. Essentially there will be more Cicero to come in the following chapters, and there WILL be eventual sex and sexual themes, hence the explicit tag. In fact it will be a heavy feature so heads up. As for length I'd like to get this a nice size, but I need support to keep me going! For all you Cicero fans out there, support the arts! There's just not nearly enough of him anywhere.
> 
> Alright that concludes my ranting! I hope everyone enjoyed the first chapter. Please feel free to report any typos that you may see or anything that you feel should be corrected.


	2. Misguided Children

'For this Sanctuary knows suffering,  
knows sorrow, for the ghosts of  
Purification still haunt its halls.'  
-23rd of Evening Star, 4E 186

Windhelm was in the middle of one of its infamous blizzards. Windhelm wasn’t the most northern part of Skyrim, but it sure as Mara was the coldest. Winterhold always had a steady supply of snow, as did Dawnstar, but Winehdlm was the only Hold Capitol that Lance knew of that got so blisteringly cold. It was a dry cold, one that bit into the flesh and caused instant death for the ill-prepared.

Lance felt the brunt of the storm as he made his way across the great stone bridge. It was close to blowing him off the edge, and he cursed the heavens as they opened up with another gust of ice. Even his Nord heritage could only stand this for so long, and he relished the blessing of the city walls once inside them. They blocked the majority of the wind, and the air felt immediately warmer.

Inside the city was much livelier. Even with the sun blotted out from view, everyone still went about their morning routine. Merchants and traders carted their goods to and fro in a busy attempt to get their stalls stocked before the morning rush. 

Lanced watched them as he stood near a burning torch to melt the ice that had accumulated on his armor. Here no one stared at his odd garb. Since he pledged his alliance to the Stromcloaks Lance had become a regular here in Windhelm, and the locals passed without so much as a hello. Ungrateful bastards.

One who did approach him was the begging woman he often saw standing near the fires at the gates. She stood to warm her old bones and Lanced welcomed the company. Without so much as a pause he slipped her a few coins, of which she accepted gratefully.

“What’s the news around town?” He asked in a low tone.

“Not much,” the old woman replied as she stared into the fire. “Ulfric has been causing trouble for the Empire in Whiterun hold again.”

Lance scoffed. “He’s already won most of the war. Why is he still in Whiterun?”

“Apparently there are still a few Empire loyalists in the plains. He’s trying to put a stop to them before they gather any other forces together.”

“As if they’ll be a real threat,” Lance said bitterly. “There isn’t anyone left to rally. Ulfric saw to that when we took over the city in the first place. That lad will be the death of me…” he grumbled before continuing. “Anything else?”

“Yes actually…” she replied and gave the area around them a quick sweep with her eyes. “Something disturbing has been going on in the living quarters on the east side of town. Someone, a lad I think, has been performing the Black Sacrament.”

Lance kept the unease out of his stance and resisted the urge to glance around. The Dark Brotherhood then. The last he’d heard of them it was from Maven back in Riften when she’d threatened him with them. Lance had no fear for the Dark Brotherhood, he could take care of himself, but having them in town was never good.

“Any idea why?” He asked, keeping his head low as a gaggle of women passed.

“No idea,” the beggar said with a shrug. “Apparently he’s been trying for a few days now. Rumor is starting to spread. It won’t be long before people start sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Lance had to agree. Assassins and nosey neighbors never mixed well. He slipped the woman a few more coins. “Where’s he live?”

She accepted the coins and leaned in to whisper the address. Lance thanked her before hastily heading in that direction. Damn kid didn’t know what he was getting into. The Dark Brotherhood was nothing to shake a sword at. He’s encountered their assassins before, and they were not good with children. Or him for that matter. Who kept wanting him dead anyways?

He found the address, and breaking into the child’s home was simple, and he ascended the stairs carefully so as not to make them squeak under his weight.

“Sweet mother, sweet mother send your child onto me for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear,” a small voice said from somewhere up top.

Lance came to the top of the staircase and glanced around the barren house. There next to nothing. It was as if the place had been abandoned for a while before being ransacked by hooligans.

The chant met his ears again and he approached a nook off to the side. What met him was…expected for a Dark brotherhood ritual. Blood, bones, a few plants, and a young boy stabbing a very, very, dead body repeatedly. Yep. It had the Black Sacrament written all over it in necromantic blood.

Lance cleared his throat and the boy paused in his stabbing to look over his shoulder. Lance saw his eyes widen before the boy scrambled to his feet. He looked poor. It reminded him of the begging children in Whiterun. He barely looked to be in his fourteenth winter. Not quite young enough to be defenseless, but still too young to fend for himself.

The boy’s eyes roamed over him as he loomed in the doorway. “I…” he started before seeming to find his courage. “I k-knew you’d come! I just knew it! The assassin from the Dark Brotherhood,” he said affirmatively and carefully stepped over the mess of bones and blood to come up to him.

“Uh…lad I think ye be mistaken,” Lance said, unsure whether to offended or flattered. Him? A Dark Brotherhood agent? He may not be the saintliest of men, but wasn’t that a bit too far?

“No you just have to be! I mean look at you. No need to hide. I performed the Black Sacrament with the blood and the…things! Now you can accept my contract,” the boy countered with a wide smile.

Taking a Dark Brotherhood contract would not be good for his image, but Lance considered it. He was by no means a Dark Brotherhood associate, but it wasn’t like murder was below his morals. Lance has slain hundreds of men in the civil war alone. “….Killing someone is a serious matter lad. Give me yer reasons and I might accept.”

The lad, who called himself Aventus Aretino, told him of the fate of his departed mother and being sent to the orphanage in Riften. Being a prominent head in Riften, Lance knew of the orphanage. It had about a dozen kids all being taken care of two women, but that was the extent of his knowledge.

“Ye want the ol’ woman dead?” He asked incredulously.

“Yes! They call her Grelad the Kind, but she’s not kind. She’s terrible! To all of us,” Aventus said with a hatred Lance thought incapable of one so young. “She needs to die. If not for my sake it’s for everyone else in that orphanage. The world will be a lot better place with her gone.”

Lance considered his options for a minute before speaking. “The Dark Brotherhood ain’t cheap lad. Ye got something for payment?” He had no idea what the Dark Brotherhood would charge per murder, but it couldn’t be a small amount.

Aventus looked bashfully at his shoeless feet. “I…I don’t have much. Mom didn’t leave me anything really,” he looked up with a hopeful glint in his eye, “but I have a family heirloom you can have. It would get you quite a pretty septim. So what do you say?”

Lance huffed under his cowl. Surely the reward for this murder wouldn’t be worth the bounty placed on his head if he were to get caught. Not that a bounty was that much of a problem. He could afford it, but he had stolen his own money. He paid his dues and fought his own battles. Nocturnal would take his soul before he gave that back to the asses he took it from, and a tiny reward plus large bounty versus a young boy’s disappointment? Strangely it wasn’t a hard decision. 

“Fine lad I’ll do it. She’ll be dead within the day,” he said with a nod.

The boy startled Lance with a squeal and wrapped his thin arms around the thief’s waist. “Thank you! I knew the Dark Brotherhood would save me,” Aventus said as he gave a big smile up at Lance. “You’ll find her in the orphanage. She never leaves. When you come back I’ll have your reward waiting. A hot meal too!”

Lance gave the boys head a firm pat. Was he doing a good thing? If the old hag was truly as terrible as this boy said then maybe she was better off dead. Murderers, rapists, bandits, and assassins died by his blade and arrows on a daily basis. What was one old woman who may, or may not, disserve it? Oh Mara preserve him.

“Alright lad enough with the touchin’. I’ll be on my way…I’ll be back before sundown tomarra,” and with that Lance left the boy. Staying might prompt the boy to ask questions, questions that Lance wouldn’t and couldn’t answer. Plus it was a nine and a half hour walk to Riften from Windhelm. Damnit all. He wished he had a horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much thought I decided to stop here. It seemed like a good place to stop!
> 
> The next chapter might get a little violent. Warnings ahead!
> 
> Let me know how you like it by either giving kudos or posting a comment below. We writers need motivation in order to succeed!


End file.
